


We All Run From Something

by EclipseWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: And My Own Altered AU To Fit Into the Teen Wolf Universe, Established Relationship, Gen, I've Altered Maze Runner and Subsequent Books, It was basically a hunter base camp trying to find a cure for the supernatural, M/M, Maze Runner AU, Post-S4 Teen Wolf, Some of the Characters Who Died Live, Stiles Stilinski is Thomas (Maze Runner), They Are Now A Combination of the Books and First Movie, Thomas is Stiles/Stiles is Thomas, cute and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her son isn't even born when she sells him to the government. </p><p>Maze Runner/Teen Wolf X-over</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Stop Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from ‘Love Runs Out’ by One Republic

Her son isn't even born when she sells him to the government.

John never finds out. Claudia prays he never finds out that the boy he's learned to love like his own child is nothing but property, nothing but an investment, a test, a _trick_.

Her son is only a child when she takes him away on their orders. They tell her to bring him back for a few months every year and she does.

Because WICKED is good, and when he's old enough, her son will understand that as well.

WICKED is good.

 

It's a ritual, every summer. School closes, and Stiles plans for the long summer days of doing nothing with Scott that he's never going to have. For some reason he thinks this year is different. That maybe because his best friend is now a werewolf, that they're actually going to spend the summer together. But Allison goes off to France, Jackson goes off to London, Lydia vanishes into boys and Stiles…

Stiles falls back into the same old routine. He packs. He tells his dad he's visiting his grandparents. Then he leaves.

John has no idea where Stiles is really going, and the boy has never worked out how to tell him.

 

The deadpool is over. The school year closes with no more problems. Peter is dealt with and the Argents are running across the country doing who knows what.

This year Scott's the one planning their summer, wanting to hang out with the pack, relax and have fun. Stiles is unusually quiet.

Nobody really thinks to ask why until he's no longer there.

 

"He goes every year," John tells them, "He visits his grandparents - Claudia's parents - they live out in the mid-west. He stays a few months, every year."

It shouldn't be a worry, not in a pattern that's regular, repeated, almost soothing in its certainty. But Malia can't contact Stiles, and Lydia's found death certificates for both Claudia's parents. The address Stiles gave them leads to a small dead end track with an abandoned house, and the number is out of service.

It will be okay, they reason; he'll be back as usual. They can ask him then, right?

Except this time Stiles doesn't come back.

 

There are missing posters around the town, distributed around the state. But Scott's senior year… his last, final year at Beacon Hills High School starts without his best friend.

They're nowhere in the search. Just three more dead ends and some faked records further than they were a month ago. There's a blank space on Stiles' birth certificate where the name of his father should be, and his adopted father is barely there anymore, just going through the motions.

Scott wants to feel the same way, but he forces himself to be strong. If not for his pack, then for Stiles.

Because they'll find him. They will. They've called Argent back to help, and Derek and Braeden have wandered off to follow their own leads. He'll turn up eventually.

He will.

It's a full year later when Braeden comes to them with records regarding Stiles' mother. Claudia used to work in a government laboratory before retiring, studying the effects of stimuli and environment on the human brain. There's an address for a research lab in the same state Stiles' grandparents were supposed to be in, but by the time they finally get there the building is in ruins.

They've literally just missed it. The bricks are still warm from the explosion. There are wild theories flying around about it being blown up from within - an inside job. Braeden produces a hard drive from the wreckage with encrypted data about hundreds of kids, their DNA workup, maps of their brain and thought processes in science he can't even begin to understand. Half the files stop after a few pages, even more stop a few pages later with a giant red 'terminated' printed across them.

There are about twenty three files still active. About ten boys and thirteen girls, all in the age range of fifteen to eighteen.

Stiles' picture is there with the others, and there are pages of maths equations and notes dating back _years_.

Either way the conclusion is clear - there's nobody left inside the building. Nobody alive at any rate.

 

That's about the time Scott realises it's probably time to stop searching.

 

There are times that Thomas dreams about wolves.

He's in the maze, tossing and turning in torturous dreams as the poison seeps through his veins, and he hears their voices. They're like a shadow half remembered and they are lost in the whirl of other memories.

The images stay with him, long after his certainty about the maze trials and what he and Teresa did long fades. He dreams of wolves. (They look human with gold and red and blue eyes and--) he wakes, crying out for people he's never heard of.

Minho shakes him awake, "You were calling for people," he whispers, and there is hope in his eyes. Thomas shakes away the remnants of the dreams.

"I don't remember," he whispers, faintly, "I don't…" he meets Minho's gaze, "They're gone," he says, and he can see Teresa behind the runner, and Newt hovering in the background, "It's not important," he shakes it off, despite the fact his nightmares have awoken everyone else.

It's not important. It's in his head (it crawled inside while he was drowning in ice and mistletoe).

He goes through the trials. The maze. The scorch. The images (memories) sit at the back of his mind forever there.

He doesn't know if any of it is real, or if they are just memories implanted by WICKED. (He likes to think it's real).

 

Teresa remembers.

She's the only one. The only one of them who underwent the process of regaining her memory.

She doesn't like to think of before. Before WICKED she was a scared little girl, hiding from the monsters. Before WICKED was Mark and Trina and madness in a community that wanted nothing more than to kill her for who she was. Before WICKED she was someone else; a different name and a different life. She was helpless and alone.

Now she's not alone. She looks at where the other three boys sleep. Newt looks pale, still recovering from everything. He's not like the other three, he's not immune, and that almost cost him his life. Minho looks strong and healthy in comparison, even under the dust and ash from the last desperate fight. Finally Thomas, _Tom_ \- her best friend, the one who she was closest to.

The one who helped set everything up and then tore it down with her.

WICKED is good. For so long Teresa had believed it. She had seen what happened when supernatural threats went wrong, what havoc it could wreak before some bloodthirsty hunters tried too late to shut it down. WICKED had the right idea, finding a cure, a protection for humanity from magic and spells and werewolves and whatever else lurked in the dark.

The Maze Trials had been somewhat of a success, the simulation that had started three years ago with missing kids around the country finally ending, even as the next one began. The Scorch was, in the end, just another simulation. Just another test. And then, just when they promised no more tests, they threw another simulation at them.

In another world, Teresa might have gone with them, listened and done what they told her.

But in this world the monsters were real but they weren’t the beasts that howled at the moon and let fire crackle at their fingertips.

They were the people who had put them through everything in the first place.

 

There are only twenty-three of them left. The building they left a smoking wreck is all that is left of the experiments. Beneath hundreds of tonnes of rubble the two mazes that kept them caged lie in ruins. The mockery that was the scorch lies hundreds of miles away, and nobody particularly wants to go back to that monster infested place.

Seeing the laboratory was bad enough. Seeing the creatures they kept caged there just to work out how to keep humanity safe from them… well nobody wants to know about that, but apparently they, the kids, had been their only hope, all of them immune to one or more of the supernatural.

But that was all gone, in rubble and one big explosion.

And the kids go to ground. They’re all clever (they were chosen for a reason, after all). Most of them have gone through the process to regain their memories, and they sneak back to their homes and families across the country, each other’s numbers programmed into burner phones in case they ever need them. Those who don’t remember set up in new cities away from WICKED and everything it represented.

Teresa has nothing to go back to, and the three boys don't remember. They had all decided it was better to fight than to submit.

The price they paid were their memories.

The victory they won gained them their freedom.

The four of them stick together. Teresa and Thomas and Minho and Newt, just like they had been together in the maze and the scorch - the four of them still searching for answers and pasts none of them are even sure they want to go back to.

Teresa has nothing to go back to, but at least she remembers. Thomas doesn’t, but she? She does.

She’s seen his file.

"You're from Beacon Hills, California," she tells him, spreading out a map as Newt lazes on top of their stolen SUV. It’s large and black and the British boy is secretly smug about how well he managed to steal it. The other three just ignore him.

“It’s a long drive,” Tom tells her. He sounds apprehensive. He’s trying not to, but she knows him too well and she can tell when he’s nervous. She inclines her head to Minho who takes charge, snatching the map up.

“I’ll navigate,” he says, “Newt can drive.”

Tom doesn’t argue. After all, they have nowhere else to go.

It's as good as place to start as any.

 

They don’t rush. California is over half-way across the country and they take their time, learning to live again in a world they don’t remember.

They had told them that the world was ravaged by monsters.

Looking around Newt thinks it was just another lie. Another untruth in a sea of the false and the fake. Kids run around, screaming and laughing with happiness so profound and real it makes him almost giddy. People walk the streets going about their lives as if there aren’t monsters out there in the dark.

There are. In the car Minho and Teresa are peering through binoculars at a homeless man lurking at the edges of the park. They’re whispering together and paging through one of the old books that they took with them when they finally escaped the facility. Teresa is so organised she has a tick list that she is steadily crossing off options from.

There are monsters in the world, but there is beauty too. They exist side by side. Newt’s already given so much to trying to stop the monsters, what is a little more in the long run as they take the time to make sure some other people can have their happiness.

He thinks he’s found his own any way, right here with his friends.

A shadow slips across to join him, and he has to turn his head to examine where Thomas is silently watching the world. He’s been quiet lately. Newt thinks he’s getting more and more apprehensive, the closer they get to California, but he’s been quiet lately anyway. He hasn’t said that much since they found him in one of the labs, shivering on a table in restraints.

Newt doesn’t know exactly what happened. But Thomas wakes in cold sweats, begging and pleading someone to just ‘kill me now’. And when Newt holds him close Thomas whispers about how they want their brains, and they don’t care if they’re alive or dead.

They fall asleep, still holding each other, and neither of them dream about brain patterns or monsters or of a cold hard gun pressed between them.

“Okay,” Teresa announces from the car, “I think I’ve got it. Shtriga. A vampiric witch from Albanian folklore,” she slams the book closed and Minho narrowly avoids having his fingers crushed.

Newt peers at the homeless man, “He doesn’t look like a witch.”

Teresa glares at him, “You don’t look like a hunter,” --and okay, fair point.

He guesses that’s what they are now. The organisation they had escaped from had been built from hunters who wanted to win the war, and they are its legacy. Kids with knowledge. Kids with immunity.

Well… maybe not Newt.

“Why do you look like that?” Thomas asks.

“Look like what?”

“Like that? Like you’re thinking too hard about something.”

He laughs, “Who, me? Here I thought you were the thinker, Tommy.”

Thomas doesn’t say anything. Just leans forwards and presses a soft kiss to his lips, “It’s over,” he whispers, but who he’s trying to convince Newt doesn’t know, “It will be okay.”

Newt smiles, because he thinks he might just be starting to believe that, “I know,” he says, kissing Thomas back. He hears Minho make a gagging sound from the back seat but ignores him. “Now… how do we kill this thing?”

 

After some holy water and pig-bone crosses, the shtriga is gone and they’re on the move. Teresa buys the chart CDs and Minho skips every other song. Newt drives like a maniac until Teresa takes over, and Thomas starts games in the back seat, tracing out patterns in his boredom on the leather seats (Newt has really good taste in cars).

They stop for the night and rent a shared motel room. Two queens are cheaper than four singles, and Thomas and Newt sleep curled up together in a tangle of limbs anyway. Minho and Teresa share. The former sleeps like a rock (well-practised after years of sleeping in hammocks) and the latter has insomnia. By the time she does sleep, they’re all woken a few hours later by someone screaming. Nobody is coherent enough to work out who it is. Thomas is the most common suspect, but the others have had their fair share of nightmares that there is no blame thrown on anyone’s shoulders. They drift back to sleep after a bit, and in the morning when they all wake up it’s to find they’ve done their increasingly frequent habit of migrating to one bed by the end of the night. Thomas is curled between Teresa and Newt and the latter is half sprawled over Minho who has started to snore.

It’s simple. It’s easy.

They eat at cheap and greasy diners. When they get sick of those they rent a place and Thomas and Teresa attempt to use their genius to cook something half-way decent. They steal money pickpocketing and Minho teaches himself how to hack computers. He rigs up false credit cards for them all, and buys them spare phones. When the guilt hits Newt learns how to play poker and pool and they hustle for some extra cash.

It’s simple. It’s perfect. It’s how they survive each day, taking it one step at a time as they work their way across the country.

 

“Beacon Hills looks weird,” Newt reports as they near their destination, “Animal kills in the woods. At least five serial killers in the past three years…”

“When we get there we should check the yearbooks,” Teresa says, “You might be in them.” She glances over to where Tom is silently cleaning the various weapons they’ve collected next to Minho. He looks nervous, and he doesn’t want to talk much about the town they’re going to. He’s scared, she knows that. Both that they might find something, or that they might find nothing.

God, what if she’s wrong? What if there is nothing here, just another town with a supernatural population?

“Werewolves,” Newt appears to have decided on, “Too many things line up with the full moon… later on though I don’t know. As I said - at least five serial killers. Maybe more. You sure you want to head here, Tommy?” he looks to where Thomas sits because even though they decide on things together when it comes down to it, they listen to their leader.

The real leader.

Teresa feels her tattoo itch along her hairline. She knows what it says, she remembers it vividly and it cuts into her heart like it cuts into her skin.

She’s the betrayer. She’s the one who was meant to turn around and help the hunters over her friends, but instead she betrayed the ones who had imprisoned them.

She vows not to do it again.

“I think we should find out if Teresa’s right,” Tom tells them, “Even if she’s wrong, there’s something fishy with the town. The latest serial killer appears be leaving exsanguinated bodies.”

“Is it really that hard to say ‘they’re drained of blood’?” Minho asks.

“A vampire?” Newt wrinkles his nose, paging through to find the right article.

Thomas grins, “No. _Vampires_. I think they’re a coven.”

Minho frowns at his friend, “Why do you sound so happy about that?”

 

“What’s Christmas?” Thomas asks Teresa when they’re picking up some decent food one day from the supermarket. She cranes her neck, following his gaze to where giant banners are splayed around the shop, complete with snowflakes and red hats that look lined with cotton wool.

Spinning back to him she stares at him for a moment, “Huh,” she says, “You don’t remember that either?”

He shoots her an unimpressed look and her grin is just a little bit mischievous. He remembers a time when he could read her mind as easily as she could read his, a time when their thoughts were on the same wavelength.

But that had changed. They’d lost that like they’d lost so much else.

It makes no difference. They’re still in tune.

“Well?” he prompts her, “What’s the big secret?”

“It’s a pagan holiday,” she explains as she begins to load foodstuff into their cart, “At some point Christianity took it over as the supposed birthday of baby Jesus. Now everyone celebrates it but mostly because everybody gives each other presents. There are stupid traditions, like Mark and Trina bought a tree once and we decorated it, the presents get wrapped and put under the tree, there’s stuff like mistletoe that you have to kiss under, everyone eats turkey for some reason…”

He looks mildly alarmed, “Why?” he asks, not sure what the point of it all is.

She laughs, “Because it’s fun and it makes people feel nice. Good will and all that, saying goodbye to the old year, bring on the new. And to be honest, I could use some good cheer,” she grabs something from a shelf that he doesn’t see, and stuffs it under their pile of veg.

“What is--“

She pulls the cart away from him, “Nu uh,” she taunts, “You have to wait and see like the others.”

He laughs. It bubbles out of him and it’s so unfamiliar he barely recognises the sound. “I don’t know what you want! Or Minho, or Newt, and we really don’t have the space; we’re living on the road…”

Teresa shrugs, “Minho’s easy. You get him one of those little puzzle books where you have to figure out the route to get out of the maze- Tom-stop it- _Tom_!” she collapses giggling as he grabs her, tickling her mercilessly at the mere _thought_ of another maze--

She escapes to the other side of the cart, still laughing.

“And for Newt, well, if anyone knows it would be you. You two are practically inseparable after--“

After the thing nobody talks about. After the time Thomas almost pulled the trigger that would send a bullet into what felt like his other half.

He doesn’t even know if they’re official. None of them are whole enough really for that kind of normality. But they touch each other a lot, mostly just to reassure each other that they’re alive, that Newt didn’t die in a fake wasteland from a supernatural madness and a cold iron bullet.

“Don’t look so scared!” Teresa taunts him, “It’s only the twenty-fifth. You’ve got four weeks; just… don’t leave it to the last minute.”

“I’ll have you know that some people are organised,” he taunts her, waving the milk in front of her face, along with his hastily scribbled shopping list. He doesn’t quite know why Newt added orange to the bottom, but is his boyfriend wants an orange he’ll buy him a damn orange.

It’s Newt’s money anyway.

They’re still laughing and chatting as they go through the checkouts, and that’s when Thomas notices someone staring at him. A woman with tanned skin, the slight ripple of scars along her throat and dark hair, and she’s looking across all the way from the alcohol aisle to him. When she notices him staring she turns, as if calling to someone.

“Tom! I can’t carry all this, come and help me!”

Teresa drags him away and he forgets about it, shoving the incident to the back of his mind and dragging their carrier bags out of the store.

 

He doesn’t see the man that joins the woman, nose twitching slightly as if scenting the air.

“Where is he?” Derek scans the shop.

Braeden looks disheartened, “He and the other girl must have left. If we run we could catch up with them.”

“It…” Derek scents the air again, “It smells like him, but not… something’s different. And he’s happy… are you sure it was him?”

“ _No_. Next time; get your wolfy ass in gear faster so you can confirm it,” Braeden grumbles, “Shall we tell Scott?”

Derek breathes in the faint scent of gun oil, teenager, something medical and the slight tang of fresh air. It’s hard to pick it all out, because it’s overpowered by a strong wave of happiness, “No,” he says, doubting himself, “No, we shouldn’t get his hopes up. Especially if we’re wrong.”

His girlfriend sighs, “Come on,” she says, “I want to get into town before it gets too dark. That loft of yours is freezing at night.”


	2. Bring Back Hope

He stares at the sign.

Welcome to Beacon Hills.

That’s what it says, right above the population number. But someone with a wicked sense of humour (pun totally intended) has crossed out whatever number it was originally and scrawled another with spray paint. Then that’s been crossed out and it’s repeated again and again and again. Numbers crossed out one by one. The numbers are unreadable, but the message is clear.

Population dropping.

“I think there might be a supernatural infestation,” Teresa sniffs critically, “No wonder you were picked up by WICKED.”

He shrugs and tries not to let it get to him, “Maybe my family are dead too,” he says. He thinks he remembers a mother. He knows he had friends. He can’t remember a father. “We’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

He sounds braver than he feels.

 

Thomas is right. There are vampires in town.

The shuck is goddamn lucky, Minho thinks, and even nearly a year since the Maze, he’s still running on the same lucky streak.

“Okay, so we need to find their nest,” Thomas unrolls a map of Beacon Hills in the middle of the floor of their motel room. He’s still Thomas to Minho. Newt calls him Tommy and Teresa calls him Tom, and the pair act as if they have exclusive rights to those names. Minho doesn’t really care.

“The murders so far have been here, here and here,” he puts red crosses in the map, “That would suggest we have an area around…” he circles a small section of the town with a radius that includes the three murders.

Thomas frowns, “How do you figure?”

Minho shrugs, “After vampires drink they’re practically drunk on the blood high. They wouldn’t make it far, and they need somewhere dark to hold up. Hence…” he gestures to the circle. It’s on the west side of Beacon Hills, just south of the animal clinic and encompassing some part of the preserve.

“Huh,” Thomas’s gaze assesses the more limited area for a nest, and with a triumphant cry he points out a building, “Old distillery,” he says, “That sounds perfect.”

Now it’s Minho’s turn to frown down at the map, “How did you guess _that_?” He tilts his head, trying to work out what link Thomas has spotted with sharp eyes and an even sharper mind.

With a sigh Thomas steals the red pen from him and after consulting their laptop, draws four squiggly lines across the map, "Beacon Hills has a convergence of teluric currents," he says as if that explains everything.

Which is a way it kind of does.

The red pen makes a dot over the only building within Minho's circle to lie on one of the currents, "So it's just a good guess, but knowing the supernatural's affinity for EMP waves, I figured it was a pretty safe guess."

"Bloody genius," Newt is still scratching his head and frowning down at the map. "Well what now?"

"I don't need to be a genius to tell you that," Thomas teases.

"We go after them," Teresa declares, "And we kill them."

Minho swears, “Shuck. Well I guess that sorts that out.”

 

It does.

Part of them will always want nothing to do with the supernatural. But they’ve been trained for this. Their part in the Scorch taught them that much at least. They want to help and it’s not like they have much else.

Minho spins a blade through the air, arcing patterns through the air. Thomas has found a large gun from somewhere, but closer examination proves it to actually be a water pistol filled with holy water. Newt and Teresa have guns and knives and back-up weapons just in case another supernatural nasty shows their heads.

And the vampires?

The vampires don't stand a chance.

 

The Pack can't work it out.

It just… doesn’t make sense.

Scott stands in the middle of the abandoned distillery, looking around at the charred remains of the vampires. They’re mostly beheaded. A few look like they were stabbed with wooden stakes and then beheaded. Another four look peppered with bullets.

“Something killed them,” Liam stalks forwards, voice that bit deeper with age, and slightly taller than he was when he was still a freshman. He’s a Junior now, and somehow his grades are maintaining a steady average despite the supernatural threats that keep rolling into town.

He’s also taken on Derek’s habit of pointing out the obvious.

It is in moments like this that Scott feels Stiles’ absence keenly. He pauses, waiting for someone who isn’t there to make a snarky reply to the beta, but nothing comes. He sighs, nodding in agreement, “It looks like hunters,” he says, tiredly, running a hand through his hair, “But I don’t know of any group that would dare come to Beacon Hills after Argent warned them off.”

“The Calaveras?” Lydia is crouched down, inspecting a body.

Scott shakes his head, “Arya Calavera said she’d keep her men away. And she follows the code, she knows better than to come looking for trouble, here of all places.”

“Hey…” Malia appears, jogging up and barely panting, “I caught some scents - I think some of the suckers cut and run. The Sheriff sent me a text and there were two more almost-victims, but some people turned up at the last minute. I think our hunters are still hunting.”

Scott glances to where Kira has already drawn her katana, Malia and Liam’s claws are out and Lydia just sighs, “We’re going to track them down now?” she drawls, “Really?” she pulls a face.

The alpha just lets his fangs extend, claws out, “Hunters or vampires, they should really know by now that Beacon Hills is our territory.”

 

Thomas _runs_.

The woods are dark and deep and it feels almost like the maze, running through them. The maze shouldn't feel like home, but Thomas almost feels like he misses it.

He wonders if he was always good at running. Maybe he used to run away from stuff a lot. It feels strange to be running towards the monsters, but it’s oddly thrilling at the same time.

They’re no longer scared kids trying to figure out where they are and what’s happening. Now they’re the predators.

The ground falls away beneath him, leaves scattering as he slides down a bank, Minho already there, holding up a hand to slow him down. He looks worried, “They got the others,” he whispers, “The shucking bloodsuckers got the others.”

“So we get them back,” he snaps, tampering down the worry that threatens to rise up and overwhelm him, “There can’t be that many left. Where did you see them?”

Minho gestures over the rise, “I can’t see a shucking thing,” he swears again. Thomas isn’t even if their made-up vocabulary even counts as swearing, but Minho appears to like it. A lot.

As if to make things worse a bloodthirsty howl echoes through the woods. Thomas grits his teeth, “Wolves,” he mutters, stealing a curse of Newt’s, “Bloody werewolves.”

“We need to move. Now.”

“Well that’s easy enough,” he says with a grin that is a slash in the shadows.

“How so?”

“We’re Runners. So we do what we do best. We run.”

 

Teresa can’t believe she was stupid enough to let herself get subdued. Next to her Newt is obviously thinking the same thing, but he can’t do much more than curse continuously at them. It’s not like his busted leg makes his useless (the one vamp with burns from the holy water will attest to that) but now they’ve been caught they’re as good as trapped. “You bloody shanks! Let us go or we’ll hang you out in the sun and smoke you in holy water you buggin’--“

It continues that way for a little while.

There are three of them. One of the vampires eventually gets sick of Newt’s insults after one particularly creative one about his mother, and with a snarl and a flash of black eyes, he whirls around and socks the blonde across the jaw. Newt topples, looking dazed and maybe even knocked out. Teresa doesn’t stop to worry too much. Newt can look after himself.

She uses the distraction like it’s meant to be used. She throws her head backwards.

With a very satisfying crunch, her head collides with one of the vampire’s noses.

It’s a piece of cake then to whirl around, even with bound wrists, and to kick the vampire in the balls.

“After her!” one shouts, and Teresa runs. She sees Newt grinning through bloody teeth as she takes off. She’ll come back. He’s not worried, if anything he looks more alive than she’s seen him in ages.

She makes it about two hundred metres before one of her two pursuers catches her up. He tackles her around the waste sending them both flying. They roll down a leaf-strewn slope in a tangle of limbs and Teresa tries to avoid the fangs, kicking out and trying to reach for her spare knife. The vampire lunges forwards at her, teeth bared and about to clamp down on something potentially vital when--

There is a hiss of displaced air.

With a choke the vampire stops moving as his head rolls cleanly to the ground.

Disgusted, Teresa shoves the corpse off her, looking up to where Tom stands. Thomas tugs the machete out of the corpse’s heart. After giving it an experimental swing he offers it to her; handle first. It’s a weird mockery of how they had first encountered each other in the maze, back when Teresa had been the one with the machete and Tom had been the one taking it off her.

Now she grabs it. He uses that to pull her up with a grin, “You okay?”

“No,” she tells him dryly, “The world is fucked up.” She tugs him aside as the second vampire appears, and it’s one easy swing that doesn’t quite work out when the blade lodges in the spine. With a snarl she kicks it off, and the head rolls, still partially attached to the body.

Tom shrugs, “Can’t argue with you there,” he says, glancing up at Minho who has appeared at the top of the rise.

“You shucks okay?”

“Yeah!” she calls back.

“Where’s Newt?” Thomas asks.

They look at each other for a moment longer than a blink, and then take off running.

 

They find the vampires.

Or rather - they find the poor sod who was left to guard the one hunter they have. The hunter is curled up, looking like he’s unconscious. The vampire is sneering something at him, and it’s the last thing he says when Malia’s claws send him crashing into the ground and a Molotov cocktail from Lydia finishes him off.

God, Scott thinks: his pack is becoming really violent.

The hunter is still alive. Still conscious even, despite the way he’s slumped still tied up against a tree. He’s playing dead, Scott thinks, and he takes a step forwards, trying to work out what to do. The hunters haven’t tried attacking his pack yet but it’s just a matter of time--

“Scott!” Kira spots the danger and shouts out seconds before a blade flies past him. It buries itself in the ground just in front of him, the hilt still quivering slightly in warning.

Stay away.

“Don’t go near him!” a boy shouts, gun raised as he skids to a stop in front of Kira and Malia. Lydia spins as another girl appears, blade in hand, footsteps echoing in the dark forest. She slides through their ranks to put herself between them and her companion, and she’s not alone. The last person stumbles slightly as if from exhaustion, gaze fixed on the blonde hunter.

“Newt! _Newt_!” the guy shouts, and it’s so recognisable, Scott almost swears his heart stops.

The new arrival is familiar. Horribly, tragically familiar, but he doesn’t even stop to look at them. He slams right past Scott as if he’s not even there, moving for the hunter still tied up, leaning against a tree. He’s murmuring the boy’s name, and it’s impossible to say if he even noticed the werewolf pack standing there staring.

Because after a year and a half missing; Stiles Stilinski has returned to Beacon Hills.

 

There’s a boy standing there, with tanned skin and dark eyes and Thomas doesn’t even look at him. He shoves the boy - werewolf - aside, hearing a muted gasp of surprise but not caring--

He skids in the dirt a little as drops to the ground in front of Newt, hands reaching out blindly as he searches for a pulse, muttering words and names and “Newt, wake up, please, Newt, wake up, don’t be dead please don’t dead for me I didn’t almost kill you for you to die now--“

“Stiles?” someone asks. He’s not listening.

“ _Hey_ ,” he shakes the blonde’s head, and eyelids flicker. Newt blinks, gaze focussing in on Thomas weakly and then past him to where Teresa and Minho stand with weapons out.

“Stay away!” Teresa threatens, holding out her blade. “We will shoot.”

Thomas’ deft fingers find and unravel the ropes keeping Newt’s hands bound, and the other boy groans. His pupils look slightly out of focus and he might have a concussion but he’s alive. “Tommy?” he asks.

“Thank god…”

He presses a frantic and searing kiss to the other boy’s lips. Newt responds sluggishly, a little breathless, laughing against him as Thomas leans back to check him for injuries. “Why, Tommy, I should get kidnapped more often.”

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, turning his attention to the werewolf pack around them.

“We mean you no harm!” a girl says, but she can’t stop looking past Teresa to Newt and Thomas. He doesn’t like having his back to the supernatural pack, so letting the other boy drape his lanky frame around him; Thomas pulls them both to their feet. For a moment Newt sags against him, then he finds his feet, making as if to stumble away, but Thomas curls a possessive hand around his hip, keeping them leaning on each other for support.

His gaze darts around the clearing. Minho still has his gun pointed towards the nearest Latino boy, while Teresa is tense, blade at the ready. The werewolf pack who are still staring.

Not at him _and_ Newt he realises suddenly. At _him_.

There are five of them: two boys and three girls. He shifts his weight nervously, feeling his pulse spike and knowing that they can _hear_ it--

“Stiles?” the Latino boy with the puppy-dog eyes asks, stepping forwards and looking like he’s seen a ghost. Thomas can’t help the way he shifts back; away from the wolf.

“Don’t move!” Teresa threatens, “Who are you?”

The younger boy growls at her, his eyes blazing gold. “Liam!” the puppy-dog boy scolds him, and his eyes are red for a fraction of a second. An alpha, Thomas realises, muscles tensing and pressed against him, he knows Newt saw it too. The alpha turns to them, or more precisely, to Thomas, “Stiles,” he says again, as if the word means something.

So Thomas asks; “What’s a Stiles?”

The alpha looks like he’s been physically punched. An actual whine escapes his lips.

“You,” Teresa lowers her blade, staring from the five kids to Thomas and back, “You’re Stiles,” she sounds amazed. In awe, “Thomas… that’s _you_. You’re Stiles. That’s your _name_.”

He knows them. It hits him like a brick and he sways a little. He’s no longer supporting his boyfriend, as much as they’re supporting each other. These kids _know_ him. Who he was before everything. They’re his friends, family maybe and all he can think to say is, “What sort of name is ‘Stiles’?”

Newt cranes his neck to look at him, “I like it,” he says, “Not as much as ‘Tommy’ but it’s actually weirder than ‘Newt’ which is saying something…”

“I can always call you ‘Newton’ if you prefer,” he snaps, tense and oh god he’s terrified, he’s shaking, he swears he’s actually shaking because the werewolves won’t stop staring at him and oh god he ran with a _werewolf_ pack and--

Minho lowers the gun. Slowly, warily, but he does, “Can you two keep the pet names for the bedroom?” he asks, dryly, not taking his eyes off the pack, “Who are you?” he demands of them.

“I--“ the alpha looks flustered. Confused, “What?”

“Scott,” one of a girls, her red hair (strawberry blonde, he thinks) cascades over her shoulders, “Scott, look at him. He doesn’t… he doesn’t recognise us. He doesn’t remember.”

“Anything?” another girl demands bluntly, hair long and honey coloured and eyes brown. “Nothing?”

His voice is shaky, and his gaze sweeps over them before resting on the alpha werewolf he should know but doesn’t, “No,” he says, “They didn’t let us keep our memories… just our names and those…”

Teresa’s laugh is bitter as she finishes for him, “Those weren’t even real to start with.”

“Oh god--“ the alpha looks like he’s about to faint. Thomas has never had an alpha werewolf faint on him before, “You’re alive… you’re actually… we thought you were dead, your dad was a wreck--“

“Dad?” he catches on that word. It’s unfamiliar. Strange. He doesn’t remember a dad. He remembers a mom. He remembers her voice most of all but not a dad. It’s one of those things you always think you’d remember until it was torn away. “I have a dad?”

“Yes,” the alpha werewolf is beginning to smile, “He’ll be so happy you’re back, you’ve been gone for over a year--“ he steps forwards, arms outstretched.

In hindsight Thomas realises it was probably a hug or something. But all he thinks is that it’s a werewolf and it’s dangerous and he’s moving back before he realises, still clutching onto Newt. The alpha - Scott - freezes, looking pained, and it hurts Thomas more than he realises when he chokes out, “I can’t.”

“What?”

And maybe Newt gets it. Or maybe they’re just both really that tired because Newt’s limp leg buckles and Thomas curses as they almost both go down. It gives Minho the opportunity to take the blonde’s other arm and say, “You need a hospital…”

“My mom’s a nurse,” the stupid alpha speaks up, as if he can’t see the chaotic thoughts and emotions that he just can’t cope with--

“No, no it’s okay we… we’re fine…”

It’s not just the anxiety that wells up, threatening to swamp him. It’s the migraine pressing behind his eyelids, the flashes of places and people and voices--

_“WICKED is good.”_

He doesn’t even realise he’s spoke it out loud until he looks up to see Newt staring at him with worried eyes. They’re all staring at him. It’s beginning to be a theme.

“We’re leaving,” Newt decides, obviously concerned with something he sees, “If any of your pack attack us then friendly werewolves or not: we’ll kill you. We’ve met too many monsters not to at this point.”

“You can’t just take him!” the female brunette steps forwards looking alarmed, but is stopped by a gentle hand from the small red-head.

Her green eyes fix upon him, a concerned expression on her face as she asks: “Do you have somewhere…? I mean…”

“We’ve got a motel,” Thomas says, trying not to feel like he’s defending himself from these people. “We’re still in the area and we’re… we’re not leaving any time soon. I just…” another wave of pain hits and the world swims in front of him. He blinks, the horizon slowly steadying itself; Teresa is hovering in front of him.

“Kills, doesn’t it?” she asks dryly.

He laughs, “I think I preferred it when we were telepathic,” he tells her, shoving down the memories. “Don’t follow,” he says, “We’ll find you.”

The werewolves look like they want to do anything but let him walk away. The girl with the honey-brown hair actually whines and the alpha stares after him. His expression makes Thomas feel like he’s ripped out the wolf’s heart.

Red eyes, he finds himself thinking inexplicably. Red and gold and blue eyes and wolves--

He tears himself away, his head hurting from the memories that are never quite there. With Minho and Teresa shooting suspicious glances over their shoulders, they limp away, leaving the pack standing in the distance watching.

They don’t stop staring at him, but he tries to pretend he can’t feel the weight of their gazes, resting on him.

 

“He didn’t know us,” Scott whispers, and with a snarl of rage he slams a fist out, sending several mugs and a newspaper flying off Derek’s table. The beta barely even flinches as they crash. Malia ducks with wide eyes and Lydia rolls her eyes. “How…” Scott chokes out, rage melting away almost instantly to depression, “How could he not remember?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Lydia huffs softly, “Scott, he said they didn’t let him keep his memories. Him or those other kids. He didn’t leave because he wanted to.”

Scott stares mournfully. He had just stared at his best friend in the eyes for the first time in a year and a half and his friend didn’t even know who he was.

“Oh god--“ he chokes, “Someone… someone is going to have to tell the Sheriff. Someone is going to have to tell his dad that Stiles was right there and we let him leave. With hunters. Oh god - what if we don’t see him again? What if he leaves and--“

“Woah!” Liam doesn’t like responsibility. He demonstrates this by shoving Scott’s placebo inhaler straight in his alpha’s face, forcing him to take it and then backing away. Scott puffs on it, but it doesn’t help.

“He’s probably feeling the same way,” Kira reasons, “Scott, what are the chances he came here because of the vampires? Maybe he felt drawn here, or maybe he remembered something. He came back. He couldn’t remember anything but he still came back. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

Lydia presses her lips together, facts about amnesia building on her tongue but Scott can literally see her choke them down. He’s grateful. He doesn’t want the facts or figures.

Not when he has the reality to face.

“What do we do?” he asks, “Stiles is a hunter. The people he was with - they’re also hunters…”

“So don’t threaten them,” Derek steps up. He has good advice when he chooses to offer it, having learnt from his long and extensive list of mistakes, “They didn’t go after us, they went after the vampires. And they’re his friends. They’re close, really close…” he pauses, nose wrinkling and Scott can’t help but remember the way he and the blonde boy had clung together, or the way the brunette girl had hovered anxiously while the remaining one of the quartet had hovered protectively.

“They’re the same age as us,” he says, numbly, “God, Stiles is twenty and none of his friends look much older.”

“Do we track them down?” Malia asks, “I could catch a scent… maybe…”

Scott shakes his head, “No. They said… they said and I hope it’s true, but they’re sticking around town. We’ll see them around.”

“You hope,” Lydia sounds critical.

“Yes,” Scott says, because that’s all he can do. “I hope.”

 

“I know them.”

“Yes.”

“They know me.”

“Yes.”

“My name is… I don’t even remember: what was it?”

“Stiles.”

Thomas feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. He’s never realised before how happy, how content he is without his past. He’s been happy these past few months on the road with his friends. Ignoring that feeling that they’re still hunted, still being pursued and that one day they’ll wake up to find out their world is a lie, they’ve been fine. Better than fine even.

But this? This right here is proof that he had a life before WICKED. He had friends, family even--

He has a father.

His friends watch him pace up and down, and there isn’t one comment about him wearing a hole in the carpet. They just answer his questions, and watch him, patiently. Teresa has her arms crossed, looking tense and Minho looks really fed up but they don't say anything. The few mockeries and teasing they throw his way are light-hearted and they make him smile and forget his worrying for a few precious seconds.

He stops pacing. It’s hard, because the restless energy now has nowhere to go. “What do I do?” he asks, looking around at them.

And none of them appear to know the answer to that.

“That’s up to you.”

 

Liam’s practicing on the school field for lacrosse. It’s still December and lacrosse will only start again in January. Liam doesn’t care, and it’s not like Coach does either with the way he’s been shouting at them about it since August. Liam’s guaranteed to make the team, but he started practicing back in September just in case.

He doesn’t need to. Not really. He was good before and he’s even better now. The ball hits the back of the net and he grins, despite himself.

Brett and Mason had been watching him until recently, and now Liam can only dread as to what the pair are doing. It’s mildly irritating, and not just because Brett is a good looking fellow, but because he knows he’ll hear about it in great detail from his best friend later.

Clapping in the stands makes him spin around. There’s a boy and a girl watching him and it’s the boy who is clapping, grinning slightly.

“Pah,” the girl scoffs, “Like that’s not cheating,” she steps up onto the bleachers and then drops down, and with his stomach lurching Liam recognises them.

They’re the hunters from the woods. The ones who had been with Stiles.

“I was good even before the bite,” he retorts, anger rising like always. Maybe it had been a stupid thing to say, and he regrets it instantly.

The boy just laughs; his hair dark and eyes narrow and Asian, “Sure you were, shuck-face,” he says, like it’s an insult, scathing and rude. Liam growls in reaction, feeling his temper grow thin but trying to hold back the shift.

He can. Scott taught him how and he’s better than this, dammit…

He forces it down and the hunters look impressed, despite themselves.

“We want to meet,” the girl says, “But we need an address, a time and a telephone number.”

Liam’s heart just about stops. He looks around, but it’s just him. Him and the hunters and his phone isn’t even in his pocket, it’s all the way over in his bag so he can’t contact Scott…

“We didn’t single you out for a reason,” the guy says, “You were just the easiest to track down since you’re still at school.”

“Can’t I… can’t I call Scott? I-I mean - my alpha…” are there protocols to this, Liam wonders? He doesn’t fucking know.

“No,” the girl’s lips quirk, “You give us an address and number and we’ll text you a time.”

He doesn’t really have much choice. The two hunters aren’t Stiles, but they know Stiles. Liam might not know Scott’s best friend very well, but he knows all about the gap that was left when he went missing.

Feeling vindictive, he gives them Derek’s number, just in case they try to phone. Not that any of them appear to be people who’d be intimidated by the gruff werewolf, but still…

“Thanks,” the girl waves the piece of paper, dancing off.

The boy follows more sedately, even calling out “Nice shot,” as he goes.

Liam stares after them, and realises that like the idiot he is, he didn’t get one of their cell phone numbers in return.

Lydia’s going to murder him, he thinks, if Scott doesn’t get there first.

 

“Will you still love me when you remember?” Newt asks, as they wait for Teresa and Minho to come back, lying pressed together just to hear the thud of each other’s heart beats.

“You’re assuming it’s like a light switch I can just click and everything comes back. It’s not… I don’t think it works that way.”

Newt looks like he’s hurt him, but he’s quick to hide it. Thomas still sees it, and he reaches out, grabbing the other’s boys’ hand.

“Even if it does, nothing will erase what we went through. Nothing will erase _you_ , okay? I won’t let it.”

“Not even those girls who look at you like… like that?”

Thomas isn’t sure who Newt’s even talking about, and he wants to silence the other boy with a kiss but he forces himself to say it, “Only you.”

Newt grins, “I like the sound of that.”

“You’re a romantic shuck, aren’t you?” Thomas says fondly.

Newt laughs against his neck. “Shut up and kiss me, Tommy.”

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Favourite moment of this chapter? (Mine is the pack staring in utter confusion at Stiles and his new friends).
> 
> (One more part left. I didn't have a plot when I wrote this, so it just rounds off the loose ends.)
> 
> Enjoy!


	3. Never Look Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Risk, for anyone who doesn't know, is a board game where you have lots of little counters that represent armies and you try to conquer the world. I was gonna go with monopoly but I changed my mind.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has commented! I love to hear what you guys think!

The date and time comes through. Scott doesn’t know what to do. At all.

“Will you sit down?”

“Should I have called his dad? Should I have made sure he was here? He was on shift, I already told him Stiles was alive, but I didn’t tell him we were meeting him, should I have told him we were meeting him? Do we need food? Derek never keeps food, should I have bought something?”

Derek rolls his eyes. Lydia has to forcefully march Scott over to the couch and force him to sit down, “Stop. Worrying,” she grits out, “You’re getting on my nerves.”

“He doesn’t remember me,” he whispers, sounding a little pathetic, “Does he even care? He could leave today and not even remember our names. He doesn’t even know _his_ name.”

“So give him a reason to stay,” Lydia tells him, “Remind him. He’s always going to be Stiles. Just because he doesn’t remember doesn’t mean he isn’t that same person who once had a crush on me or helped you be a werewolf.”

Scott stares at her, feeling a little numb, “I don’t think he has a crush on you anymore,” he thinks he can safely say, “I think he’s dating that blonde kid with the weird name.”

Malia looks only mildly put-out by that. Scott wonders what she thinks about her boyfriend not remembering her. She doesn’t seem that bothered, but then again the coyote has always been quick to adapt.

Kira keeps tapping her fingers nervously against the hilt of her sword, “What about the fact he’s a hunter?” she whispers. Kira’s never really met hunters. She’s heard all the stories about Kate and Gerard but Scott always forgets that there was half a year of their life right at the beginning when it was just the few of them. Him and Stiles and Derek and Allison and Lydia and Jackson.

Jackson ran off.

Allison is dead.

Stiles doesn’t remember.

“I’m sure Scott’s taken that into account,” Derek’s tone is slightly scathing.

“I’m sure they don’t want to kill us,” Lydia says primly, “Otherwise why come here when they know there are going to be at least five potential werewolves? They didn’t see who was and wasn’t a werewolf back in the woods and Stiles certainly doesn’t remember.”

“They know about me,” Liam inputs. He still looks slightly cowed from when he had to tell Scott that two of the hunter quartet had confronted him and demanded contact details.

Derek sighs, head falling into his hands, “I should have asked Braeden to stay.”

There is a creak and Scott is on his feet in an instant as the loft door slides open. The pack all freeze. They had been so busy arguing none of them even heard the hunters come up.

The blonde leans on the sliding door, examining the place, “Huh,” he says, “I was expecting more of the underground cave, den in the wood sort of place.”

The girl moves past him, stepping down the stairs and looking around at the group gathered there with a grin, “Nice place,” she says, sounding like she’s trying to be friendly, but Scott can smell gun oil and wolfsbane and he knows none of them came unarmed.

Not even Stiles - he realises with a pang - his friend slipping into the room behind the girl. His brown eyes are blank as he blinks around at them like they’re strangers. The Korean boy is last, and he pauses to slide to door closed as the four enter the loft.

“You don’t need weapons,” Derek actually tells them, sounding almost offended that they brought them. For a moment none of them say anything, but they all turn to angle slightly looking where Stiles stands just behind them. It’s almost unconscious, Scott thinks, the way they turn to check with him.

He’s their leader, he realises, even though he stands back and lets the others talk, but in the end it’s him they look to.

Stiles is the one who speaks. “We just spent the last months locked up in a government facilities undergoing trials and experiments to try and figure out an immunity to supernatural influences and contaminations,” his tone is clinical, but it’s far too brittle for Scott’s liking, “They didn’t actually call it that, but after about the fifth monster they threw our way we kind of worked it out. And while logically we know you’re relatively sane and not likely to rip out ours hearts and eat them still beating, none of us are willing to take any chances.”

Scott can’t breathe. It’s like his asthma all over again. The words repeat over and over in his head and he can’t think of anything outside of them.

The four hunters look nervous, gazes locking onto him and he can’t work out why--

“Woah!” Liam actually flinches away from him, “Dude, your claws--“

Scott feels fangs fill his mouth and he forces them down, blinking his eyes back to red, “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s really not. He wants to rip the people who stole Stiles away into tiny pieces and scatter them across the states, he wants to make it painful and make it last as long as possible--

“Don’t look like that,” the Korean guy tells him, “The people who did this are already dead.”

It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Well--“ the British blonde claps his hands together, “Now that’s out of the way - I’m Newt,” he sticks out a hand, but Scott’s not exactly sure who is meant to be shaking it. Kira is nearest, and she grabs it almost warily as the blonde introduces his friends. The girl is Teresa; the Korean dude is Minho; and Stiles--

Stiles is Thomas.

“Why Thomas?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Stiles shrugs “We all had nicknames, after famous people. Isaac Newton, Thomas Edison, Charles Darwin…” his voice falters and he smells strangely like grief.

Stiles turns to Teresa as if she has the answers, and Scott doesn’t know why that makes him feel so uncomfortable; “None of us used our real names,” the girl - Teresa - continues where he leaves off, “Even before our memories were wiped, we never spent the whole time at the facilities. It was safer…”

“I thought you said none of you remembered,” Lydia notices, because she notices _everything_. Her tone is shrewd and Teresa--

Teresa matches it with a toothy grin and a flick of her hair, “Some of us got our memories back. Those three were too busy escaping and figuring out where we were and who had us to undergo the procedure and by the time we finished… well…” she shrugs, “There wasn’t much left.”

Scott thinks Lydia might have actually met her match.

“Scott,” Stiles blurts out, “You’re Scott, right?”

His hopes lift because does his friend actually remember--

“He called you that the other day--“ Scott’s hopes are dashes as Stiles continues, “But I don’t know any of your names--“

“Lydia Martin,” the banshee says, confident smile flickering slightly, “I’m a banshee. Currently studying at Stanford, but I come back for the holidays. We all do…”

“Scott McCall,” he gives his surname as well, as if he’s meeting these people for the first time and one of them isn’t his _best friend_ \-- “I’m a true alpha, I’m trying to get into vet school. Still. Supernatural stuff keeps getting in the way. That’s Liam. He’s a junior and my beta. That’s Kira… she’s a kitsune, and Malia - a werecoyote.”

“So only three of you are shifters?” Minho looks surprised, gaze sliding to where Derek is lurking in the background, “And him?”

“Derek Hale,” Derek says, “This is my loft and I’d rather appreciate it if next time you left the wolfsbane at the door.”

Stiles glances sideways, whispering something to Teresa. He must know half of the people in the room can hear him, but he doesn’t seem to care, “The Hale fire…” he says and she nods as if she knows what he’s thinking--

“Sorry,” Newt waves a hand at them, “Sometimes those two forget they’re not telepathic anymore.”

“Telepathic?” Lydia’s voice is sharp, “I thought you said you were immune to supernatural influences?”

Teresa looks surprised, “What? No, that wasn’t supernatural… that was all science. They did something so they could monitor our brain patterns.” Lydia looks intrigued. Teresa just looks nervous, fidgeting slightly, her eyes wide and still flickering around the room, taking in all the exits.

“This is awkward, isn’t it?” Stiles blurts out, looking apprehensive as everyone looks to him, “I mean… it’s bad enough we’re hunters who went through the most fucked up initiation process which was actually an attempt to wipe out and cure the supernatural… but I don’t even remember you. And apparently I used to live here and I don’t even know what my name was--“

“Stiles,” Scott says, finding his footing, “Stiles Stilinski.” His friend looks even more wary at that announcement, but he relaxes as Scott tacks on, “It was a nickname - I couldn’t pronounce your real first name when we met in kindergarten. I was four… five? I don’t remember, but we were friends. Best friends. You had a key to my house you came over that often, my mom was mildly disturbed you got that made but--“ he shrugs, “You were always my friend. Even when I got bitten and the supernatural shit storm hit the town, you were always there… right up until last summer when you went off… your dad said it was a regular thing. You visited your grandparents or something. It was fine. Except this time… you didn’t come back.”

The four of them exchange a glance. Scott hates feeling like the outsider, like he doesn’t even know what his best friend is thinking. Stiles’ expression is unreadable and Stiles--

No. Thomas, Scott thinks.

Is it the same person if they look the same, act the same but don’t know you?

Is it the same person if to them you’re a stranger?

Is it worth looking in this broken mirror for his friend, or is Stiles really dead? Is this Thomas all that he has left to remember him by?

“We think…” Stiles - Thomas - says cautiously, “We should probably explain to you what happened.”

 

They don’t tell them everything.

Because fuck - how can they? There is too much to fit in. Too much emotion and pain and loss that dry, empty words can’t communicate to anyone. The only people who would understand are the ones who were there, and maybe that’s the reason Thomas sits pressed up against Newt, Teresa resting one hand on his knee and Minho the other side of the blonde, back stiff.

They cover the basics. The Maze. The monsters in the shadows that only came out at night. The serums that infected them, caused them to _change_ …

“They were working on a cure,” Teresa tells them.

“A cure to what?”

“To everything.”

They tell them about escaping. About the maps and the codes and the numbers and the desperation in those final days as the rules they had clung to all broke and their friends started to die. They tell them about how they’d been the ones to put themselves there in the first place.

“They always had us doing tests. Tests and more tests and at some point they picked us out. Thomas and I… others too but they… they didn’t survive. We made the plans. We finished their models. We designed the tests, the ones they couldn’t. At one point it was like they worked for us, right up until they turned around and wiped our memories.”

“WICKED is good,” Thomas intones, the words cold and stale on his tongue, “I think we believed that at some point. That we were doing it for the best.”

“Most of us had lost family to the supernatural. Our lives had been touched by it, shattered by it… WICKED just picked up the pieces. We did the rest willingly.”

They tell them about the facility. About the false hope that they had escaped, only for it to be turned around and shoved in their faces when they went through the next trial. They tell them about the Scorch filled with monsters. About how the lies began to unravel piece by piece until the next time they woke up in the facility, they knew they weren’t going to stay there.

“We found the building,” Scott says, quietly. The werewolves and kitsune and banshee and whatever else had all listened in silence. “It was just rubble.”

“Good,” Thomas says brusquely, “They deserved it.”

They tell them that they got out. They tell them that they headed west, guided only by Teresa’s half remembered name of a tiny town in California to guide them.

They don’t tell them about the monsters they left behind. They don’t tell them about how most of their friends died.

They don’t tell them how at one point Thomas almost had his brain cut open while still alive without anaesthetics just so a desperate man suffering from a bite could work out a cure. They don’t tell them how at one point Newt was losing his mind, words sliding from the pages and shadows clinging to his fingers as Thomas pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger. They don’t tell them how at one point Teresa almost got crushed in the explosion and she almost died under hundreds of tonnes of rubble.

They don’t talk about the nightmares they still have. They don’t talk about how it’s lucky that Newt and Thomas are in a relationship and the other two don’t want one because they’re pretty sure they’re far too fucked up for normal people anymore.

Even werewolves.

“We’re sticking around,” Thomas tells them, “We’re not going to hunt you, not if you don’t come after us first. But I-- I’d like to get to know you.”

“Again,” Newt drawls.

“Again,” he agrees.

“Do you need somewhere to stay?” the alpha is so damn keen, staring at them with puppy-dog eyes, “We have a spare room and my mom won’t mind--“

“He still lives at home,” Lydia mock whispers to them, “He thinks it’s cute.”

“I’m sure Derek won’t mind you staying in the loft,” Scott shrugs. Derek looks like he very much does mind, but doesn’t say anything.

“We’ve got a place,” Minho says, “Besides, I don’t think the wolf will appreciate our wolfsbane supplies.”

Scott hesitates, and he keeps glancing at Thomas like he wants to hug him or something. Taking the plunge, Thomas slides a pen out of Teresa’s pocket, scrawling out a phone number and sliding it over to the alpha werewolf, “As I said - we’re in town. After the holidays I don’t know where we’re going… none of us knew what we were going to find here.”

It’s suddenly awkward again. It’s not like in the books or films where everyone just starts talking together like old friends. It’s not like in those stories where something triggers the memories to start pouring back. There’s nothing, just an empty cesspool of half-remembered dreams and shadows.

Real life doesn’t work like that.

“Well that went well,” Newt comments cheerfully when they make it outside the loft.

“You realise they can still hear you?” Minho deadpans.

“That’s the bloody idea.”

“It could have gone worse,” Thomas kicks at some stones in the road idly.

“Do you… remember anything?”

“No,” he shrugs, glancing at Teresa, “I don’t think it works like that.”

Silently she shakes his head and Thomas wonders if his biggest fear is a reality. If he’ll never remember. Not really.

“Come on,” she hooks a hand through his, dragging him to the car, “Newt can drive. I want to stop by the mall - I need to look for some presents.”

“Presents?” Minho frowns, “What for?”

“What for? For Christmas, dummy.”

“What’s Christmas?”

“Oh, you three boys are in for a big treat…”

 

“It wasn’t all bad,” Liam tries to console his alpha.

“It wasn’t all good either,” Scott groans, “He’s not Stiles.”

“He looks like Stiles,” Malia uses her impeccable coyote logic that not even Lydia can argue with, “He smells like Stiles. He even acts like Stiles. I say he’s Stiles.”

“How much do memories make up a person?” Lydia hums, “I think we have a chance, Scott. We just need to take it.”

 

The next time they meet up it’s just Thomas. It is intimidating being around people who know him but at the same time don’t.

They’re not familiar. If he stares they have that vague emotion that was attached to Teresa back in the maze. They’re right, he thinks, he knows them.

They tell him about the werewolves and how Scott got bitten. His own thread in events is explained, spun out for him to see and if they were hoping it helped him remember it doesn’t.

“We’re not expecting you to be the same,” Lydia tells him as he prepares to leave. Her hair is pretty he thinks, and it’s definitely not red but he can’t quite explain why.

"But you are," he sighs, "Lydia, you are. And I'm not. I'm not the same. I'm not him. I'm not Stiles."

“We don’t care.”

He researches. He looks up the person he is meant to be, and he wonders if he could pretend to be that person again.

But around him Newt has somehow been cajoled into braiding Teresa’s hair and Minho is conspicuously absent, looking for Christmas presents probably, and he doesn’t want to pretend. He just wants to be who he is and if his former friends don’t like it then he doesn’t care.

The issue is he does like them. He gets on with them all easily. After the awkward tension finally (eventually) melts away, the pack get along with all four of the wanna-be-hunters. Teresa and Lydia argue about math and theories and Liam who happened to be sitting next to them went blank eyed about half an hour back. Newt and Scott look like they’re managing to get along; they’re arguing about cars versus motorbikes. Thomas just steers clear of that.

Even Minho is talking to the girl (apparently a were-coyote, what’s up with that?) and they’re currently trawling through webpages of around-the-world news. Minho looks fascinated, but the coyote shapeshifter appears to understand not even half of it.

He almost feels like he shouldn’t be there.

“They looked for you, you know.”

He turns to see the surly dark haired werewolf - Hale - staring at him. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to say.

“They didn’t stop until they saw the destroyed facility. It almost killed Scott.”

“I don’t remember them,” he says quietly, knowing if any wolf is listening then they’ll hear. He doesn’t care, “I don’t think I can. What they did to us…”

Hale - Derek - examines him for a moment, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so quiet,” he says.

“I told you - I’m not him.”

“If you had a choice between saving yourself and saving your friends who would you choose?”

He glares, “What sort of question is that? My friends. Always.”

Derek grins, “You’re not that different,” he shrugs, “And for the record you once bribed someone to help your friends.”

“Bribed?” Thomas thinks curiosity is his fatal flaw, “How?”

“Me,” Derek flashes fangs, and then spotting the scary girl who usually carries lots of guns, wanders off leaving Thomas staring after him, eyes narrowed.

“Is he always so unfriendly?” he asks Kira.

“Who? Derek?” Kira stares after him, “He’s sort of like Scott’s werewolf mentor.”

“He’s really unhelpful.”

“Yeah. That’s what Scott said.”

 

Scott’s been delaying it. But to be fair, he’s not the only one. Stiles - Thomas - doesn’t talk about where he was. None of the pseudo-hunters do. But they are gradually learning to relax among the pack and he caught Teresa and Lydia in a violent battle of math skills the other day. Scott just walked out of that as quickly as possible before he got a migraine.

He invites Stiles - Thomas - over to his place. They spend the morning going through the school year books. Scott talks himself hoarse. It’s easy and reassuring and Scott can’t help but understand what Stiles once meant when he referred to Malia’s baby-steps in re-joining society as ‘progress’. Stiles doesn’t remember _anything_. But he sits in the same seat on the sofa he’s always sat in. He chooses the same option for snacks that he always used to. He even notices and asks about the baseball bat leaning in the corner of Scott’s room.

He’s not Stiles. But at the same time he is.

Stiles’ new friends appear about lunch time looking they’re half-expecting Scott to have eaten Stiles by now. They don’t apologise for gate-crashing, just make themselves at home with their friend. Scott doesn’t miss the wary and protective gazes they shoot his way. It’s almost as if they know he’s planned something, but he doesn’t begrudge them being there. They were there when Scott couldn’t be and he’ll always be grateful for that.

 

The doorbell rings mid-way through a long story involving a baseball bat and an alpha werewolf and Scott looks up, biting at his lip, “I didn’t think he’d be this early…” he says.

“Who?” Thomas says warily, “Who is that?”

Scott looks sheepish, if such a thing is possible for a werewolf, “Uh… I’m sorry… I should have told you…”

“Told me what?”

“Just…” Scott doesn’t answer, darting to the door. Thomas sucks in an angry breath; ignoring Newt’s calming hand and shoving himself to his feet, moving around the sofa to where Scott is talking to a man at the door.

He’s old. That’s the first thing Thomas thinks. His hair is greying and his face is beginning to wrinkle. He looks tired, with old, grey eyes that are far too world-weary. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, but there is a still faint tan line from where he once did. Instead there is a glint under his collar from where it’s still around his neck on a chain of some sort.

He’s dressed in a Sheriff’s uniform, and talking to Scott, “Are you sure?” he’s asking, “Is it really him?” and Scott doesn’t even answer, just turns almost hesitantly to look to where Thomas stands.

The man turns and freezes. Thomas would be worried he’d have a heart attack if the werewolf didn’t look comfortable stepping back, offering him a supportive grin. “Stiles?” the old man asks, voice broken and gaze even more so as he stares at Thomas. Thomas feels his heart break because he should know this man. He should recognise him, know who he is--

Seconds later he feels stupid because there’s only one person this can be.

“Dad?”

“Stiles,” the man says again, and seconds later he’s wrapped up in warm arms and a jacket that smells of sweat and warmth and--

He stiffens instinctively. But the man doesn’t let go, just presses a wet face into his shoulder, murmuring his name over and over and _this man is his father._

Thomas’ cheeks are wet, and he doesn’t know why. There’s something stuck in his chest, like a trapped bird trying to claw its way out. He sucks in air, body trembling and his fists tighten in the jacket of the man wrapped around him.

Over the man’s shoulder he sees Scott smile at him sadly, and then slip quietly out of the door. Thomas watches him go, clinging to the man in front of him and his cheeks are damp.

He’s crying, he realises. But not with sadness. Nobody is dead or dying. Nothing is going wrong.

It’s going _right_.

He’s crying from happiness, and he can’t even remember why.

The man pulls back slightly, “God,” he breathes, “look at you, you’re so grown up… I missed you so much, god, Stiles…”

Thomas turns to look at his friends. He’s expecting them to look with jealously at him, but Teresa has tears in her eyes, Minho is sniffing and Newt has the biggest grin on his face. He struggles free of the embrace of the man - his _father_ he thinks with wonder - and wraps out an arm, drawing in Teresa who is the nearest to him. The man - his _father_ , his _dad_ : that word sounds so strange but he loves it - turns to look at her, “And who is this lovely young lady?”

“This is Teresa,” he says, “That’s Newt and Minho. They’re my… my friends… my _family_.” He uses that word because it’s true. Because he knows already how Minho’s nose will wrinkle and Teresa’s lips will quirk upwards and Newt will look down embarrassed. He knows them better than he knows himself. They’re the people he trusts to watch his back, the people he has and will always trust with his life.

“It’s nice to meet you,” and the Sheriff - his _father_ \- reaches out and hugs her too in a giant bear hug. She squeaks, then blushes and tries to relax, tries not to look like it moves her. The Sheriff - his _dad_ \- pulls back, then glances over to the other two, “You two might as well join in…”

“Oh no, we couldn’t…” Newt shakes his head, but Teresa hooks him up and drags him along. Newt brings Minho along with him as if trying to grab onto help, but the Korean boy doesn’t even try to save either of them from the Stilinski hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even though he doesn’t know why, “I’m sorry… I don’t remember, but I’m sorry and--”

“You’re home now,” his dad says, “You’re home. That’s all that matters.”

Home. Thomas thinks he likes the sound of that.

His father steps back, looking at all four of the not-quite teenagers any more. He shakes his head fondly, “You all are,” he says, “You’re all welcome to stay. With me, I mean, what with Christmas coming up…”

He’s alone, Thomas realises. His father is alone and lonely and-- “Yeah,” he says, knowing already that the others agree with him, “Yeah, I think… I think we’d like that. None of us remember a Christmas.”

“I do,” Teresa says, “But no good ones,” her voice is quiet. Sad. She’s staring at the Sheriff with wonder.

His dad just smiles, “As I said… you’re all welcome. It’s not the first time I’ve ended up with extra kids.”

 

Scott wrings his hands nervously and Melissa obviously decides to put her foot down or something because she grabs his shoulders. They haven’t even made it to the house yet, they’re still lingering by the car, “It is still Stiles,” she says, “You’ve seen him already, you got him and his dad back together, and don’t let anybody tell you that you are not a good person.”

“Wha--“ he doesn’t even know where all this is coming from.

“Now,” Melissa spins him around and shoves him towards the house, “It is Christmas Eve, we are going over for dinner before you decide that you’re intruding.”

“Wha- Mom, _what_ \--“ Melissa doesn’t even knock, she just shoves Scott into the door and that’s enough noise. The door opens and the Sheriff is smiling in a way that Scott hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

“Scott, Melissa!” he grins, “Come on in.”

He gestures for the pair to come inside and both do so. Scott barely makes it three steps before turning to him to ask, “How’s Stiles?” because he hasn’t heard anything since the Sheriff had phoned to let him know he now had his son back in his house along with three additional not-teenagers.

The Sheriff’s grin fades slightly, but doesn’t vanish, “He’s good. Great. His friends are amazing, I can’t compete with those kids, seriously…” he makes a motion to the living room. Scott peers past, and his heart feels lighter somehow as he takes in the scene.

He thinks they’re playing Risk, but it doesn’t look like anyone is winning. Stiles has the blonde boy half lying on him and all four are laughing as Teresa rolls the dice, punching the air triumphantly. Stiles makes mock hurt expressions as pink counters move into a previously yellow occupied country, but Newt just points to half the world which is already yellow and black. The pink and green don’t make much impression on the giant empire and there is a small blue corner on Australia where the Sheriff is obviously holding his own.

They all look happy. And Scott had seen them in the woods, alive and well but looking stressed. Worried. Even later they all still looked nervous. Like they were expecting something to leap out of the floor and attack them or for the roof to fall on their heads. Now, laughing around a board game, they all look relaxed for the first time since Scott’s seen them.

“They have nightmares,” he hears the Sheriff telling Melissa, “They all do. They wake up screaming or fighting invisible enemies, but the one time I looked in on them after hearing someone screaming they were all asleep again, in one huge pile.”

Stiles looks up, and for a moment Scott feels like he’s intruding when his friend spots him. But instead his grin grows wider and he gestures Scott over, “Come look at our empire!” he proclaims, gesturing to the yellow and black half of the board.

“He thinks it’s an empire,” Newt stage whispers to him, “But when it’s just him and I playing we’ll see whose empire it is then.”

“We never played this,” Scott admits, taking over the Sheriff’s admittedly small collection of countries. Stiles leans around Newt, frowning at him and he elaborates, “You always won. And I was awful.”

His friend grins, “See?” he pokes Newt, “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Scott loses a country, and Teresa seems to be making and breaking alliances every other turn.

“You really are awful, dude,” Stiles tells him, trying to be nice but failing, especially as Scott loses Australia which he realises after two turns is actually South America to Teresa who seems to be playing dirty now. She’s traded in about fifteen cards and has half a bag pull of pink counters that seem intent on taking over the yellow and black mass in Asia, “I pretty sure you broke a rule,” he chides.

“I read the rules Tom, this is perfectly acceptable.”

Scott leans back, now he’s out of the game, watching them all. Stiles is keeping an eye on the girl’s dirty playing, but looks up, meeting Scott’s eyes, “Are you okay?” Stiles asks, “Is this weird for you?”

“Is it weird for you?” Scott asks, not knowing what to say.

Stiles frowns at him, shifting so that Newt’s no longer as much in his lap and he’s free to wiggle around to where Scott is. The blonde barely minds, too busy defending his pale green continent with vicious di rolling, “Sort of,” he hums, “But not really? I mean… you’re my friend. And I don’t remember all the shit we went through, but I like you. Even if I didn’t know we were friends before, I think I’d be friends now simply because of that.”

Scott asks him something that has been nagging him, “Would you rather I call you Thomas?” he asks. He’s not yet sure he wants to try and monopolise on Newt’s ‘Tommy’ or Teresa’s ‘Tom’.

Stiles shakes his head, still smiling, “Nah. That would be weird for you, right? Just… you might have to call it a few times before I get used to it, but I’m Stiles to you, just like I’m Thomas to them. Teresa’s name is DeeDee, but none of us call her that.”

“DeeDee?” Newt catches the tail end of the conversation, looking both disgusted and gleeful, “Your name is DeeDee?”

“You said you wouldn’t say anything!” Teresa looks furious, “Tom!”

“I never said that,” Stiles shakes his head, “ _When_ did I say that?”

“I told you that in confidence!”

Scott leans back, feeling happier than he felt in a long time. He feels even better when Stiles leans over him to grab the set of white di and doesn’t bother to move from where he’s leaning on Scott. It’s vaguely reminiscent from when they were kids, but it’s new and it’s different and it’s better, he thinks.

It’s better than anything he could have imagined.

 

They sleep in the living room, still sprawled across everywhere. For once it is not a nightmare or someone screaming that wakes Thomas, but instead it’s a dry throat and a slight cough.

He’s thirsty.

He’s getting himself a glass of water, and it’s trivial. It’s minor.

It’s normal.

“You’re together, aren’t you?”

Thomas jumps out of his skin when his dad appears in the doorway to the kitchen, gaze soft.

“What?” he says, not sure what his dad means. He finishes off the glass of water with a long gulp to buy himself some time as the Sheriff turns, head tilting to where Newt lies on the sofa. His limbs are still splayed over the cushions from where Thomas had been forced to awkwardly extract himself from the blonde’s clinging limbs (not that Newt would ever admit it). He doesn’t know what to say, or what he’s meant to do--

“It’s okay,” his dad smiles, and it’s full of joy, “I see the way you look at each other. I’m so glad you’re happy.”

Thomas looks down at Newt, and he can still feel the gun in his hands and see the madness in his friend’s eyes, but it’s a fading memory now.

“It’s funny. You once tried to tell me you were gay and I didn’t believe you but… well…” the Sheriff shakes his head, “You never liked labels. Not even your real name… you picked your own.”

“What is my real name?” he whispered, meeting his dad’s gaze.

His dad smiles, and tells him.

His blinks, “I have no idea how to say that.”

“Why do you think we called you Stiles?” his dad’s smile falters, “Or Thomas now, I guess.”

Thomas shakes his head, “I’ll always be Thomas to them,” he gestures at his friends around him, “But I… I don’t mind you and the pack calling me Stiles. I told that to Scott… just… I might not respond to it at first, but I… I want to be him. I know I am him…. But…”

“You’re Thomas as well,” the Sheriff says gently, “It’s just a label. You’re still my son.”

He can’t talk, his throat too choked up to say anything. He nods instead, short and sharp and jerkily, and tries not to cry as his dad wraps his arms around him. “I didn’t get you anything,” he blurts out, “Teresa says people buy each other gifts for Christmas but I… there wasn’t much time and I didn’t…”

“Oh, Stiles,” his dad whispers, “You coming home was enough of a gift for me.”

And later when Thomas slides back under the blankets, Newt barely stirs, just rolls over and presses his face into his shoulder, arms dropping back around him. Teresa is actually asleep for once, and Minho is half falling off the other sofa but has somehow perfected his balance as if he’s still in a hammock and has yet to make it the last twenty centimetres to the floor.

He doesn’t think they’ll stay. They’ve wandered too much for that, and they have too much to give still to the world. But he thinks if he has a place like this to come back to at the end of the day then it everything might just be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And Isaac comes back a month later to visit and show off his French and he’s heard that Stiles is back, but when he looks around he can’t see him. So he asks, and Scott’s answer is mildly worrying: ‘he’s off with his hunter gang’. Especially as nobody else appears worried. And a week later the pack are talking, trying to work out what the new monster of the week actually is when the loft opens and four strangers waltz in.  
> Except they’re not strangers, one is Stiles and he and a blonde boy pause to whisper something and then kiss for several long seconds. The other two just march up with sighs and eye rolls and ‘it’s a rakshaka’ and Isaac is still staring, mouth open at Stiles and--  
> He didn’t even know Stiles was gay.  
> “Hi!” Stiles skips up, pausing as he spots Isaac, “Who’s this?” he asks, as if he didn’t used to criticise Isaac’s fashion choice at every opportunity.  
> “Isaac,” Scott actually introduces him, “He was Derek’s beta, now he’s pack by association. He moved to France, or rather, Argent dumped him in France. I don’t think he even knew French.”  
> “Huh,” Stiles says, “Why’s he wearing a scarf indoors?”  
> And Isaac wants to fume, to protest, but the girl beats him there, “Don’t be rude, Tom,” she chides.  
> “Okay,” Isaac says before anyone can interrupt, “What’s wrong with Stiles?”  
> “Oh.” Scott looks really, really guilty suddenly, “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. Stiles lost his memory, got kidnapped by hunters and brainwashed but we got him back even though his memory is still patchy.”  
> Ah, Isaac thinks. That explains it.)


End file.
